White Roses, Like A Mist Upon A Terraced Height, And 'Mid The Roses, Opal, Moonbeam-Kissed, A Fountain Falling White. And As The Full Moon Flows, Orbed Fire, Into A Cloud, There Is A Fragrant Sound As If A Rose Had Sighed Its Soul Aloud. There Is A Whisper Pale, As If A Rose Awoke, And, Having Heard In Sleep The Nightingale, Still Dreaming Of It Spoke. Now, As From Some Vast Shell A Giant Pearl Rolls White, From The Dividing Cloud, That Winds Compel, The Moon Sweeps, Big And Bright. Moon-Mists And Pale Perfumes, Wind-Wafted Through The Dusk: There Is A Sound As If Unfolding Blooms Voiced Their Sweet Thoughts In Musk. A Spirit Is Abroad Of Music And Of Sleep: The Moon And Mists Have Made For It A Road Adown The Violet Deep. It Breathes A Tale To Me, A Tale Of Ancient Day; And Like A Dream Again I Seem To See Those Towers Old And Gray. That Castle By The Foam, Where Once Our Hearts Made Moan: And Through The Night Again You Seem To Come Down Statued Stairs Of Stone. Again I Feel Your Hair, Dark, Fragrant, Deep And Cool: You Lift Your Face Up, Pale With Its Despair, And Wildly Beautiful. Again Your Form I Strain; Again, Unto My Heart: Again Your Lips, Again And Yet Again, I Press And Then We Part. As Centuries Ago We Did In Camelot; Where Once We Lived That Life Of Bliss And Woe, That You Remember Not. When You Were Guinevere, And I Was Launcelot. . I Have Remembered Many And Many A Year, And You You Have Forgot.